Life is too short for boring stories

It was at that time of the year, when the winter was already in the last train, but the spring was still in the diapers, as the days were already longer, but the nights were still cold. Far from that part of the world, which in the broadest sense was to be called civilized, in the midst of a gentle, mountainous landscape, we had pitched the tent. There were only us and nature, with all its beauty and peculiarities. Connectionless. Foreclosed. Offside. Eat. Sleep. Explore the surroundings. To feel. See yourself as part of a larger whole. Nothing else. What else does it take?

There is a rhythm which sounds like that of life. Finally, no longer have to act against himself and his inner voice. Find silence. Sit. Watch. Smell. Taste. Perceiving. With all your senses. Accept. Stay. All you need. It is no longer what makes life and enriches it in a whole new way.

The light determines when the day begins and when it ends. It does not need clock or alarm. There is nothing to do that could not be done at any time as long as it is bright. At one time you find yourself embedded in the ever-changing day and night. And it is as if it had never been otherwise.

In the evening, when it is dark and everything is done. Then, fuel is piled up. At the bottom dry grasses and leaves. Above small branches and above all larger ones. Together we have collected. Wood chopping is a man’s thing. It does not need to be debated. A flame sets it on fire. Quickly it eats through the leaves and small branches, licks around the large ones, stretches to the sky and goes with the wind. Still it is round about, only the singled voices of the nocturnal animals reach us from the forest. Sometimes a shadow passes by. It is a forest where wild animals still live. There is no danger. There is room enough for all animals. Even man can find his place beside all others, if he wants and does not mean to be an intruder, but simply what he is, a fellow creature.

We sit around the fire because the night is cool and it is good to sit together. Around the fire that warms, not just the skin. We tell stories. It is not easy to find those who have relevance. Wherever we come from, they may have these. But here? There is so much that is no longer important. Only the immediate, the life, is important. What remains are the stories that concern us, which approach us and connect us to others, just as the fire would not be the same without our being together.

And even if the stories are told to the end, the fire is burned down so far that it glows only more, even then the coexistence that resonates and speaks to itself. Easy to be there. To speak, even without words. Suddenly one believes that the world can be a peaceful place. Not just here. All over. If you have enough space. “Eating, a warm place and you,” it shot through my mind involuntarily, “Is more necessary to be happy?” A deceptive conclusion, because far away, perhaps already behind the next mountain, the struggle for survival and scarce resources takes place. But here, beside the embers and under the starry sky, nothing is to be noticed.

Because there is nothing else, and nothing else is important, there is nothing that distracts us constantly and removes the concentration, we let life approach us very close to us, just like us. Simply be there, embraced and held, sentineled and guarded by the simplicity of existence. It can be so easy.


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